


The Hour, the Spot, the Look, the Words

by Courtney621



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, just pure unadulterated fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtney621/pseuds/Courtney621
Summary: Glimpses into the relationship between Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy through the years.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy
Comments: 133
Kudos: 335





	1. A Place to Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> These are my Elizabeth/Darcy scraps: outtakes from other fics, random odds and ends, and ficlets that may or may not get extended further.

The newlywed Darcys had, at last, arrived at Pemberley, and Fitzwilliam had dismissed the servants.

“Iwill show Mrs. Darcy around the place,” he had said.

Elizabeth glowed with happiness at the words _Mrs. Darcy,_ and Mrs. Reynolds had positively beamed at the pair of them.

Fitzwilliam offered her his hand. “Shall we?”

She took it with a smile and allowed him to lead her up the stairs, giggling as his pace increased and he took the top few steps at a run.

He turned around to look at her, his face shining with a boyish delight that she had never seen before.

“What would you like to see first?” he asked.

“Oh, I do believe I should inspect everything,” said Elizabeth archly. “The mistress of Pemberley ought to, you know.”

He smiled at this phrase. “I quite agree.” 

And so he did show her around the place, all of the rooms that she had seen before, and many, _many_ more that she had not.

“I am a bit frightened, Fitzwilliam, of getting lost in your house.”

“ _Our_ house,” he corrected. “And you will learn your way around soon enough.”

“That is very true,” she said. “And after all, I do not intend to be apart from you long enough to have the chance to lose my way, so I shall always have a guide.”

The tour was very enjoyable, but still more was the pleasure of feeling her hand in his, and of hearing his obvious gratification in speaking of Pemberley, his eager anticipation of showing her all of his favorite spots in the house and on the grounds, and his wish for her to see them all to their best advantage. She let the sound of his voice wash over her as he told her of names, and dates, and events, content to listen and to admire _him_ equally as well as the estate.

He led her to yet another door, pausing slightly before opening it. They stepped into an elegant, airy sort of room with a spectacular view. 

“This was my mother’s favorite room,” he said softly.

“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth breathed, leaning into his arm and taking in the sight. The windows were large, offering a delightful prospect of the grounds glistening with snow, and it would be an even more magnificent sight in the full bloom of spring. It seemed a serene, restful space; she could easily see why Lady Anne had loved this room. 

“I would like for you to have it.” He had watched her intently and seen all the delight that had passed over her face.

She looked up at him, startled. 

“Oh, no, if it was your mother’s favorite, it should stay as it is." She thought of his father’s favorite room, kept so perfectly that the miniature of Wickham still remained. "I could not possibly--”

“Georgiana and I have already discussed it,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “This has not been our mother’s sitting room for a very long time. If you like it, it is yours.”

“I do like it,” said Elizabeth, touched.

“It is settled then.” 

He squeezed her hand gently, looking pleased. She took one last look at the room before they shut the door once more. The view really was breathtaking, and it was _hers_. The house was hers. This wonderful, honorable, _good_ man was hers. What had she done to deserve such happiness?

Lost in these thoughts, she scarcely noticed that Fitzwilliam had paused again, looking wistful.

“Georgiana and I used to race down this passage,” he said, smiling slightly at the reminiscence. 

Elizabeth looked at him with amazement.

“When?” she asked. She was unable to picture it.

“It would have been when I was about sixteen or so,” he said, “just after my mother died. Georgiana was four. My father--” he hesitated. “That was a difficult period for all of us. I spent most of my time with Georgiana. It seemed to bring her some happiness, and we spent hours up here.” He gave a crooked little smile. “We made a great deal of noise and destroyed our stockings."

And Elizabeth _could_ picture it now: her husband, so much younger than she had ever known him, comforting his little sister by running up and down this passage, laying aside his own grief to help relieve hers. There were so many little things like this that she did not know about him; a seemingly endless stream of evidence to prove how kind he had been for so long, how rightfully beloved he had been to the people in his life, how badly she herself had misjudged him.

She wanted to know _everything_.

They continued to wander through Pemberley, looking into more rooms than Elizabeth could count, and eventually found themselves at the top of another sweeping staircase.

“My father and I used to slide down this balustrade when I was a boy,” Fitzwilliam said fondly. “It is the best one in the house.” 

He smiled at Elizabeth’s expression. 

“I begin to believe, Fitzwilliam, that I shall never stop being surprised by you.”

This provoked from him a more mischievous look than she had imagined him capable of forming.

“I cannot _always_ be serious,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I will catch you at the bottom.”

With a laugh, she watched him go, feeling all of the privilege of seeing this side of him, and then followed him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balustrade-sliding blatantly inspired by Ella Enchanted.


	2. Burn, Pine, Perish

Fitzwilliam Darcy was unsure if it was the house itself or his present company, but he was certainly finding Netherfield Park to be a rather uncomfortable place indeed.

He looked up from his book, accidentally locked eyes with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and hurriedly looked down again.

The room, which had been full just a quarter of an hour before, had steadily emptied, and they now appeared to be left to themselves.

Darcy, who had vowed to himself that he would ignore Miss Elizabeth, was disquieted by this development. He did not want to look at her, or speak to her, or be alone with her, because  _ apparently _ (he turned a page with unwonted vehemence) all of those things were too much of a temptation for him.

He was mortified by his weakness in this matter. It was an unexpected and undesirable insight into his own character, and he was most displeased by it. 

Elizabeth shifted slightly in her chair, her gown rustling against the cushion.

Darcy glanced up. She was absorbed in her own book, a curl spilling forward and fluttering slightly as she bent her head lower.

_ Do not look at her hair. _

He was far too  _ aware _ of her at every moment and discomfited by being so.

It had been a mistake for him to come here, and to allow himself to become attracted to this woman, and to be left alone with her now. 

He returned to his own book, paging through it without reading it. Really, he was growing vexed. Jane Bennet was doing much better and was clearly out of danger. Surely the Miss Bennets would be more comfortable in their own home.

At least they would be back at Longbourn tomorrow. Until then, he would not look at or speak to Miss Elizabeth.

And he most certainly would not think about her fine eyes.


	3. The Letter

“Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth glanced up cheerfully at the sound of her husband’s voice. Georgiana had arrived back at Pemberley that morning and they had all spent a lovely day together, and though Elizabeth already adored her new sister, she was growing ever more eager to be alone with Fitzwilliam. She had not yet learned to share him.

To her surprise, however, Fitzwilliam did not look as happy to be alone as she was. In fact, he looked rather awkward.

“What is the matter?” she asked, concerned. She had not seen him look anything less than delighted since their wedding only several weeks earlier, and she could not account for his discomfort now.

“Nothing,” he said hastily, flushing slightly. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. “I have something for you.”

Elizabeth looked at him, expectant and puzzled. Her husband so rarely lost his composure, and even on those occasions where he had (often at her instigation), she had never seen him like this, apprehensive and uneasy and shy, more like Georgiana than his usual self. 

“Fitzwilliam?”

He was holding something behind his back. He seemed to steel himself slightly, then swiftly handed her whatever it was.

She looked at it, then back up at him. It was a letter.

“I would like you to have that,” he said, looking embarrassed. “To replace the old one,” he added, in answer to her questioning expression.

Understanding flooded her at the full weight of the gesture. She looked at her husband tenderly. He had remained so stubbornly guilty about that first letter, no matter how she had reassured him that there was no need for any penitence. 

“I never burned the other one, you know,” she said gently. “It means a great deal to me.”

“You deserve something better,” said Fitzwilliam firmly. 

He continued to look uncomfortable; he preferred to avoid speaking of that time in their lives, remorseful as he still was over it, not quite accepting that he was entirely forgiven. Elizabeth, hating to see him anything other than perfectly happy, turned back to his gift.

“I have never received a love letter before,” she said. The idea of it rather pleased her.

“I had never _written_ one before,” he replied.

Elizabeth gazed down at the letter, her name written in his neat hand on the envelope, and found herself suddenly tearful. She really _was_ the happiest creature in the world. 

“You have used up rather a lot of paper, my dear,” she said as she unfolded it, covering up the unexpected emotion with her usual playfulness.

“I had quite a lot to write.”

His tone was warm and sincere, and Elizabeth’s throat tightened again. She was not yet used to this feeling of being cherished so completely. She was still thoroughly overwhelmed by it.

“Perhaps it is true that you _do_ always write charming long letters.”

He laughed. “Some more charming than others.”

He was more like himself now, made easy by her light teasing. 

“Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him as she pressed his hand, then began to read.


	4. Reminiscences

They sat side by side, fingers laced together.

“Do you recall saying that I was not handsome enough to tempt you?”

“Do _you_ recall telling me that I was the last man in the world whom you could ever be prevailed on to marry?”

They smiled at each other, and Elizabeth rested her head against his shoulder. 

“I did not truly mean it," he whispered, "and you were _never_ meant to hear it."

“Hush, Fitzwilliam,” she said gently. “It is in the past. We were both very foolish back then.”

“At least we improved, in the end.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I once promised my mother that I would never dance with you,” she said.

“I once promised myself that I would never ask.”

She laughed. “How fortunate that two such silly and disagreeable creatures found each other! I am afraid that no one else would tolerate us.”

He demurred softly on her behalf, but she shook her head.

“You need not protest against it, my dear. We neither of us have exhibited what might be called entirely appropriate behavior.”

She nestled in closer to him, wrapping both of her arms around his.

“Perhaps our course could have run smoother, Fitzwilliam, but I would not change it. I am perfectly satisfied with the way things have turned out.”


	5. Mistletoe

It had been a quiet but cheerful Christmas, their first together, and the Gardiners and Georgiana had all retired for the night. Elizabeth, with a sigh of contentment, waited for her husband in the hall. She felt warm, and pleasantly sleepy, and happier than she thought was strictly decent. It was a lovely feeling.

“Mistletoe," she said slyly as she heard Fitzwilliam's footsteps approach. She glanced upward and he followed her gaze.

“Where did it come from, I wonder?” he asked.

She stood on her toes, tugging gently on his cravat, pulling him closer.

“I do not find that I care very much,” she whispered, and kissed him.

“Nor I,” he said with a slow smile when she had done, his eyes still closed. “But I did not notice it there earlier.”

“It is a Christmas miracle,” she breathed, and drew him to her once more.

***

“I know it was you,” she said later in bed, murmuring into his neck.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mistletoe.”

“I will not dignify such a baseless accusation with a response,” he scoffed.

But she felt him smile against the top of her head as they both drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy marries Elizabeth and unleashes his inner scamp, I will not be told otherwise and will not be accepting criticism (it is Elizabeth-specific scampery).


	6. Chaperones

At Mrs. Bennet’s insistence, Elizabeth and Darcy removed out of doors and away from her supervision.

"There is something uncomfortable in your mother's determination to leave us unchaperoned," said Darcy.

"There is _nothing_ uncomfortable in my mother’s being so accommodating to my wishes for once," said Elizabeth slyly, dragging him off into one of Netherfield's shrubberies and throwing her arms around his neck.

Darcy allowed himself a minute to enjoy their solitude before leading her back into sight of the house. Mrs. Bennet, watching from the window, did not look especially overjoyed by their reappearance.

"There will be time enough for that _after_ we are married," he said with more firmness than he felt.

"Spoilsport," said Elizabeth, squeezing his arm. 

They walked slowly along the path, the day mild and bright, the breeze pleasant on his flushed face. He certainly was not displeased by this quiet moment together, but he could do without the knowing way that his future mother had suggested it.

Elizabeth looked up at him, smiling mischievously. 

"Shall we search for Bingley and Jane?" she asked. "If _you_ insist on being so honorable and gentlemanly, I believe we should force _him_ to be too."

Darcy imagined the look on Bingley’s face upon his privacy being so gleefully broken in on and smirked in spite of himself. Elizabeth grinned back.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam, we are going to make such a good team."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an early cut from A More Gentlemanlike Manner, but I have a soft spot for it.


	7. The Gift of a Name

Elizabeth Darcy gazed out of the window with one hand resting on her gently swollen belly, her needlework having fallen quite by the wayside. Fitzwilliam read quietly in the chair beside her.

“What should we call our little friend?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Melchisedech,” said Fitzwilliam promptly. He had not looked up from his book, had not smiled, but there was something in his countenance that spoke his amusement.

“Oh, yes!” said Elizabeth. “Melchisedech Darcy is a charming name. And what if she is a girl?”

“Hephzibah.”

“You have been giving this some thought.”

“Indeed. The names have been considered and chosen for some time now.”

“You have quite a talent for it.”

They smiled at each other.

“Really, though,” said Elizabeth, “I believe I have my heart set on Fitzwilliam for a boy.”

He paused for a moment. “It is a heavy name for a child.”

“He would be named after the very best man I know.”

His expression softened, unexpectedly affected by her words.

“And should not a girl be called Elizabeth, then,” he said, “after the very best woman _I_ know?”

“Elizabeths are forever called _Lizzy_ and _Eliza_.” She wrinkled her nose. “You and Georgiana are the only two who never shorten my name.”

“You are not worried about people calling our son _Fitz_?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I should like to see the person who would dare.”

“Bingley definitely would.”

They laughed at the truth of this.

“So what do you suggest for our daughter,” he said, “if Elizabeth is unacceptable?”

“I thought she should be Anna.”

“It seems rather unfair to choose names to honor only my side of the family. Why not Jane?”

“Perhaps for our next daughter,” she said. “I suspect that each of my sisters will end up with a Jane eventually. But I have always liked the name Anna, it has nothing to do with _you_.” She nudged him playfully. “I had a doll called Anna. I am sure she is still around somewhere at Longbourn.”

“I apologize for my presumption.”

“You are forgiven.”

“You asked my opinion, Elizabeth,” he said wryly, “but it seems as though you are quite settled already.”

“I am,” she said, her nose in the air, all mock imperiousness. Then, more seriously: “Do you dislike my choices?”

“No,” he admitted. “I confess, I rather liked Elizabeth for a girl, but now I think I would prefer that only one woman in my life bear the name.”


	8. Their Family Party at Pemberley

Elizabeth had been mildly surprised by how good with children Fitzwilliam was - all of the little Gardiners _adored_ him, and he was more lighthearted and playful with them than she had seen him with any other creature - though this, perhaps, had been another failure of discernment on her part.

"I was twelve when Georgiana was born," he had reminded her gently, Elizabeth’s young cousin Edward clinging to his legs. "I am quite used to this age."

It was only natural, then, when the little Darcys came along, to see that fatherhood suited Fitzwilliam very well. He was a loving and attentive father to their Anna, though Lady Catherine, who had been recently reconciled with her nephew, thought such a level of dedication from a father to a daughter unseemly.

Elizabeth, however, had been delighted to see it, and they had each been eager for their family to grow.

And grow it did. In due time, Anna was followed by three siblings, the youngest of whom, Christiana, was now only eight months old. 

The day was fine and the family was spending it out of doors, enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant breeze. Fitzwilliam played with the older children on the lawn while Elizabeth watched them smilingly from her bench in the shade, content to observe for now but eager for the day when she and Christiana could play too.

Anna was the very picture of her father, already a little beauty with her glossy brown curls, startlingly blue Darcy eyes, and full, downturned mouth that looked solemn and thoughtful in repose. She was all giggles now, though, as she danced an impromptu, unaccompanied reel with her father, and they stopped only when she was too out of breath to continue.

Their next child, Jane, had inherited Elizabeth’s darker, wilder curls, but otherwise looked more like her aunt Georgiana than either of her own parents, with the same light grey eyes, snub nose, and heart-shaped face. Jane preferred hoop-trundling with her father, who was especially good at the game (a fact that never ceased to amuse Elizabeth).

It was rather too early to say with any certainty who young Fitzwilliam most resembled; Elizabeth thought he favored his namesake, though he had her dark eyes, but in certain lights and at certain angles, and particularly when he was feeling naughtier than usual, he looked so like Elizabeth that she had to laugh. The boy had toddled after his older sisters, waiting for his turn to play, and was rewarded by being tossed into the air by his father, his shrieks of glee waking his baby sister.

Despite this abrupt end to her nap, Christiana, who had the calmest disposition of all of Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam’s children, did not cry. After a little startled jerk, her face cleared and she smiled up at her mother, looking for all the world as if she were happy to be awake and to join in the day’s activities.

Elizabeth had grown restless at her perch, feeling too far away from the rest of the family, and she and Christiana joined the others at the banks of the stream, where Fitzwilliam somewhat fruitlessly tried to teach them all to skip stones. Anna, of course, was determined to learn, and her look of concentration was a perfect mirror of her father's as he guided her hand, but Jane had only given it a few tries before wandering around to pick flowers. Young Fitzwilliam merely dropped his stones into the water.

Their father, who could play tirelessly, would have been happy to stay out all day, but the children eventually grew drowsy, young Fitzwilliam so exhausted that he looked quite ready to fall asleep where he stood. Despite their protestations, the children were ordered inside, Anna steadying her brother as he stumbled into her.

Fitzwilliam dropped a kiss to the top of his wife's head and they smiled at each other, sharing a brief private moment as the children chattered sleepily. He took the baby from her in one arm and scooped up their son in the other. Elizabeth held each of the older girls' hands, and they all made their way back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't often write Baby Darcys because the whole subject makes me unbearably saccharine.


	9. Farewell

Georgiana’s wedding had taken place, and the new Mrs. Metcalfe, though perfectly happy with her choice and eager to begin her life as a married woman, found leaving Pemberley more difficult than she had anticipated. When the time came, despite her promises to herself that she would not do so, she began to cry, embracing her brother and Elizabeth and trying courageously to smile through her weeping. 

Elizabeth, deeply affected herself, was unable to hold back her own tears, but she swiped them away impatiently and murmured words of congratulation and good cheer.

As the Metcalfes’ carriage drove away, Elizabeth looked up at her husband. He had been all smiles and comfort as she and Georgiana cried, but Elizabeth knew how badly he was taking the prospect of his younger sister’s leaving. His face, now that Georgiana had gone, was pale and drawn, his mouth tight and thin, his eyes dark and downcast. Elizabeth had watched him grow more and more despondent as the week had gone on; never allowing Georgiana to see his sadness, but more quiet and thoughtful than usual in Elizabeth’s company. She had allowed him space when he needed it, keeping busy when he shut himself up in the library, and always greeting him with smiles and a hand to hold when he emerged. 

She took his hand again now.

“Jonathan is a good man,” she said softly.

“I know,” said Fitzwilliam.

“She will only be an hour away.”

“I know.” This, very quietly, swallowing hard.

Elizabeth increased her pressure on his hand.

“If we are not brave enough to face this,” she said, forcing herself to sound bright and airy, “how will we ever manage when Anna is married?”

Fitzwilliam made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. 

“I do not want to think about it.”

“Well, we have a while yet,” Elizabeth said gently, drawing him close to her. One-year-old Anna was asleep in the nursery.

Fitzwilliam allowed himself to be folded into Elizabeth’s embrace, closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair. He did not cry - he was not a crier; was not inclined to excessive displays of emotion in general - but his jaw was clenched and every muscle was taut, the telltale signs of his unhappiness. Elizabeth rubbed his back soothingly, hoping that her own presence, warm and loving and _there_ , would comfort him, and they stood like that for quite some time.

“Come, Fitzwilliam,” said Elizabeth, when she felt him relax. “I do not wish to return to the house just yet. Let us take a little walk.”

And she led them slowly down their favorite path, never dropping his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scrap of a work in progress that I refer to as The One Where Georgiana Gets Married, and I have every intention of finishing it someday (I have bits and pieces of it all over the place).


	10. Firsts

It was at Oakham Mount one morning that Elizabeth realized she had never said it out loud. It had been implied, and she thought that he _knew_ , but the words had not yet been spoken.

"I love you."

Mr. Darcy looked at her quickly, his eyes searching her face, as if unsure he had heard her correctly. 

She smiled to confirm it and his face lit up, his eyes wide and bright. He looked younger in happiness.

"Do you?" he asked. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

"Of course I do," she said, and she took his hand. "You do not think I would agree to marry you if I did not love you?"

"No," he said. "But it is… gratifying to hear it."

"And now it is all completely settled, that you are not to be rid of me," she said. "I hope I have not frightened you."

"I never wish to be rid of you," he said looking down at their hands, his thumb tracing circles on hers.

"You say that now," she said archly, "but you have never before had to live with me for any extended period. You may not find me so charming when we are married.” She moved closer to him. “You may begin to find my liveliness tiresome.” She inched closer still, feeling both forward and hopeful. “Perhaps I will become like my mother!” Their faces were very, very close now. “You may think--"

He kissed her then, gently, almost tentatively, but effectively ending her raillery.

"I do not know if that was my reward for teasing you or for telling you that I love you," she said, her eyes fluttering open, unable to stop the grin that was spreading over her face, "so I shall have to do both very often."

He smiled and silenced her once more.


	11. Love Language

It was but the morning after Elizabeth Darcy had admired a very pretty set of hair combs in a shop that she received them as a gift from her husband. She had not been hinting at anything, nor had she expected the gift, but her husband was a generous man and, surprised and grateful though she was, she did not dwell long on the event. 

When it occurred a second time, after commenting on a lovely shawl, and a third, when speaking of a book she longed to read, she began to feel a little uneasy.

“I do not wish him to think that I am expecting presents,” she said to Georgiana, “or that I am making any demands.”

“Oh, no,” said Georgiana, her eyes wide. “I am sure he thinks no such thing! This is just his way. One cannot admire anything in Fitzwilliam’s hearing without him rushing out to procure it for them."

Elizabeth could well believe it. After all, her husband had refitted an entire sitting room for Georgiana just because she said she had taken a liking to it. His was a liberality born out of kindness, and he positively spoiled the people he loved. 

Still, she was determined to speak with him.

***

“I have never thought that you expected anything,” he said, after she had done. “I buy you these things because _I_ enjoy it.”

“But does it not look unseemly?” she asked. “Your family already think I am a fortune hunter.”

“I do not care what they believe,” he said dismissively. “They certainly never complain when they need me to lend them money. And,” he said, more heated now, “I should think that I am entitled to buy gifts for my own wife without it being commented on.”

“Fitzwilliam,” she said gently, taking his hand, “you are always very thoughtful and I love that about you. But I never want you to think, even for a moment, that I married you for your money, the way so many people do.”

“I do _not_ think that, and I care very little about what the rest of the world may say.”

“But it sometimes feels as though I do all of the receiving and you get nothing in return,” she said, exasperated.

He looked genuinely nonplussed. “I have you. I do not _want_ anything else.” 

That was very sweet, but she would need to speak with Georgiana again.

***

“Fitzwilliam _is_ rather impossible about presents,” said Georgiana. “He is embarrassed whenever people try to give him things.”

“Well, that does not seem fair,” said Elizabeth, “as he is always giving himself.”

“You can imagine how relieved _I_ am, that he must now divide his attention between the two of us!”

Elizabeth laughed. “And how have _you_ managed, being on the receiving end of his generosity and discouraged against any reciprocation?”

“I have always made him things,” said Georgiana. “Drawings, usually.” She smiled at Elizabeth, a little ruefully. “It is hardly on the level of a pianoforte, but that is what he likes.”

“But I do not draw.”

“I could teach you,” said Georgiana hopefully. “I am sure Fitzwilliam would love anything that you made.”

***

And so Elizabeth practiced.

Georgiana was an excellent teacher - patient and encouraging and skilled - but there was just no escaping the fact that Elizabeth had very little in the way of natural artistic talent.

Georgiana refused to see it.

“You are doing very well!” she insisted. “You have never drawn before and all new pursuits take time.”

They tried crayons, and pencils, and watercolors, and Elizabeth was clumsy with them all. 

“You just need better inspiration,” said Georgiana firmly.

They escaped out of doors, where Elizabeth tried to create something that was not objectively terrible. She had decided to paint a landscape, choosing for her subject a favorite spot of her husband’s (a shady and peaceful place by the stream), but she had rather overestimated her abilities.

Georgiana, meanwhile, had completed a miniature of Elizabeth, very prettily done but a touch too flattering.

“He will like _that_ ,” said Elizabeth, hot and frustrated and covered in paint. “But mine…”

She trailed off and looked with a critical eye at her own attempt. To call it inexpert would be too kind.

“Fitzwilliam will love it,” said Georgiana earnestly. 

Elizabeth made a face.

“He will!” Georgiana pressed her hand. “Elizabeth, when Fitzwilliam buys you hair combs, or shawls, or whatever else you have taken a fancy to, it is never truly about any of those things. He is showing you that he cares about you, that he is _thinking_ about you. He will see what an effort you have made to paint a place that is special to him. That is what makes it so meaningful.”

Elizabeth looked down at her painting. 

It was a good thing that Fitzwilliam loved her so much.

***

“You must not laugh.”

Fitzwilliam looked at her with some confusion.

“I have painted you a landscape and you _must not laugh_.”

The corners of his mouth began to curl upward.

“You must not _smile_ , either.”

He hastily composed himself.

She sighed and presented the painting to him. A look of mingled tenderness and amusement crossed his face.

“I shall hang it in the picture gallery at once,” he said.

“You will _not_ ,” said Elizabeth, “or I will have it back.”

“You cannot have it back, it was a gift.”

She continued to protest against his hanging it anywhere, and he continued to insist that he would. To Elizabeth’s relief, however, it never appeared in the gallery.

Instead, the landscape remained, in a place of prominence and importance, in the recipient's study, where it was cherished rather more highly than any other piece of great art in his collection.


	12. Night Terrors

It was a peaceful night, the rain pattering gently on the windows the only sound, but Elizabeth Darcy could not sleep.

“Fitzwilliam?” she whispered, propping herself up on an elbow to look at her husband. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm?” He had been on his side, his back to her, but he turned over at her voice, pulling her close to him. “What is the matter?”

“I have been thinking.”

He waited for her to continue, his fingers tracing patterns down her back.

“What do you think would have happened had I not traveled through Derbyshire last summer?”

She could not say why the thought had struck her now, or why it had so preoccupied her that she had been unable to rest.

His hand stilled, settling at her waist.

“We may as well conjecture,” he said lightly, “about what would have happened had I behaved in _a more gentlemanlike manner_ when I first met you in Hertfordshire.”

“No, really,” Elizabeth insisted. “Do you think… do you think we would have seen each other again?”

She kept going cold at the thought, that the sheer, implausible _luck_ of their meeting at Pemberley was what had led to their union and that it so easily could not have occurred. How much more probable would it have been for them to miss each other than to meet? And how great would have been the consequences of their missing each other! Her whole life would have changed course; she would not be this blissfully happy.

“I had already resolved on bringing Bingley back to Hertfordshire in the autumn,” he said. “We would have seen each other then.”

“But we would not have met with the same feelings.”

It was _that_ which made her breathless. Without her visit to Pemberley, there would have been no Mrs. Reynolds to disabuse her of her deeply-held and wrongheaded notions; there would have been no Gardiners with which to display his altered manners; there would have been no introduction to Georgiana. All of their deeper understanding would have been lost. He would have returned to Hertfordshire to be viewed among the society of Longbourn alone; he would not have been his true self around her mother. She would not have been given the opportunity to see him as he really was.

“We would have found our way to each other somehow,” he said.

Elizabeth gave a gaspy little laugh. “I did not know you were such a romantic.”

“Only with you.” He tucked a curl behind her ear.

“But if we had not met in Derbyshire,” she said, “then you would not have been there when I received the news about Lydia. She would have been lost, and my family would have been ruined, and you would have never come back to Hertfordshire because neither you nor Bingley would have had anything to do with us!”

She knew the panic blooming in her chest was irrational. She knew everything felt more dire in the dead of night. But still she pressed herself closer to her husband, taking comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the feeling of his hand in her hair.

“But it did not turn out that way,” he soothed.

“It could have! Everything could have been so different.” She shook her head. “It is already astounding that you came back at all, connected as we are with Wickham. I certainly could not have blamed you, had you stayed away. All of that history...”

“What did you tell me your philosophy was, when it comes to thinking about the past?” he teased her gently.

He laughed as she poked him in the side.

“You never wonder about this?” she asked.

“I used to,” he said. “I had my own anxious nights, while we were still in the middle of things. I find it easier to be sanguine now, as everything has worked out for the best.”

She said nothing.

“Elizabeth, _of course_ things could have turned out differently. What if Bingley had never come to Netherfield in the first place? What if I had never persuaded him to leave? What if you had never met Wickham? What if I had been half an hour later in returning to Pemberley?” His voice was very soft. “Everything in life seems fragile when you consider how much depends on luck and chance.”

“I just hate the thought of us never being together,” said Elizabeth. 

Fitzwilliam cradled her head in his hands. “But we _are_ together,” he said, “and nothing can change that. Even if things _had_ gone differently, I refuse to believe that we would not have figured it out eventually.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Try to sleep, Elizabeth,” he said. “I am here.”


End file.
